


Salting Wounds

by PandaHero



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: And So Much More, F/F, aka 'noire's misadventures in nohr' which will include:, intense gay feat. camilla selena and beruka, oh and also a few slight changes to age bc elise is not 18 stop Lying To Me, the aftereffects of tharja being a Bad Mom, xander being confused as all fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaHero/pseuds/PandaHero
Summary: A now corrupted Anankos has grown impatient waiting for his three chosen warriors to return with his heir, and decides to send another Ylissian child in to help push them along. He picks the wrong child.





	1. a prologue of sorts

**Author's Note:**

> after pestering my brother about this AU for a few days i figured it was time to actually share it;; also, quick little warning for some vague self-harm stuff that shows up here (and will probably make a reappearance later)

She’s whisked away in the dead silence of midnight, cradled in palm and talon large beyond compare as a scaled forearm reaches down from the heavens themselves to steal Noire form her bed. She frantically blinks the sleep from her eyes as she’s brought up through the clouds, to a realm where the stars are within arms reach, and moon shines bright behind her.  
  
This is reason enough to be scared out of her skin, but when she lays eyes on the creature who’d taken her she nearly faints.  
  
It can only be described as a most eldritch of horrors, a dragon in essence but a grotesque amalgamation of dulling scales and great rotting teeth in actuality. Its face is the most horrific, one single, glowing eye rolling between tens of eye sockets. Noire cannot look at it without feeling nauseous, and settles instead for staring at the beast’s swishing spiked tail. She tries in vain to match her breathing to its slow swaying but finds it simply impossible to calm down when in the presence of such a monster.  
  
And then it speaks.  
  
“You have been chosen, little one,” it says in an echoing growl so loud Noire has to close her eyes. She keeps them closed, shrinks in on herself, and trembles like a leaf in hurricane winds, because judging by the size and looks of this creature she’s clearly been chosen as a meal.  
  
The silence that follows the beast’s brief explanation is meant to be filled with Noire’s response, but when she tries to speak her voice comes out more as a strained squeak than actual words.  
  
“Ch-chosen?” she echoes back, voice barely audible over the dragon’s breathing. “Chosen for w-what?” She begins to stammer, unable to help her nervous rambling. “Wh-who are you?” she asks, “where am I?”  
  
She grips uselessly at her talisman, wishing by some miracle to find a shrivel of anger deep within; to give her at least some semblance of strength, a surge of blood and thunder, in the face of this nightmare. Better yet, she wishes for this to simply be a nightmare, a dream cast upon her by her mother that she can just wake from, seek the comfort of Lucina or Brady’s embrace, and forget it ever happened.  
  
But of course, she has no such luck and experiences no such miracle. The creature continues.  
  
“Chosen,” it repeats, ignoring her other inquiries, “to assist me.” Its tail swoops down and behind poor Noire to push her forward as the beast leans down to meet her face to face. She can feel it’s hot breath against her face, the tip of its tail pressing into the small of her back, and again begins to feel as if she is sick. “You are to find my lost heir. She fell to earth long ago, but I need her now to settle matters of magnitude too hefty for a human such as yourself to understand.”  
  
Noire, though rather confused and still entirely terrified, nods. She believes herself at least somewhat smarter than this creature apparently does, and knows that the more she agrees and acts like she understands the quicker this can end.  
  
“I have already sent three of your comrades on such a mission,” it continues, again surrounding Noire with its foul breath and thundering voice. “But they appear to be having difficulties with the mission. You are to assist them.”  
  
Noire can’t help but blink in surprise, as this one small comment explains the sudden and devastating disappearance of Owain, Inigo, and Severa, friends of Noire’s who have been missing for months. They’d vanished without a trace, leaving only Owain’s trusted sword and many upset comrades behind. Their families are still rocked with grief. Noire hasn’t seen a night where Olivia does not cry into Virion’s shoulder, a night where Lissa does not apologize to her wife and excuse herself from dinner when she glances too long at the empty seat next to Brady, a night where Cordelia doesn’t hold Gregor’s shaking hands in her own as he weeps for his daughter. And Noire wonders, as the monster lets her absorb his request, if Tharja will be so distraught now that she has disappeared.  
  
Lucina certainly will be, there’s no denying that. Kjelle might, they have been much closer ever since the hot springs. Yarne’s anxiety will worsen for sure, he’d already been pushed over the edge into paranoia with the vanishing of their other friends. And, she muses to herself with a certain frustrated sadness, there is not a chance in hell that dear Gerome won’t blame himself for her disappearance, what with the way he watches over them all so carefully.  
  
Though there’s still a thought, a deep, nagging thought, that no one will miss her. She is, after all, rather pathetic. Why else would Chrom and Robin give her so many of those sad, pitying glances? Why else would Laurent have to so routinely remind her to watch her health? Why else would her mother still curse her?  
  
“Why me?” Noire asks, voice still squeaking and small as she tries so very hard to seem strong in front of the awaiting monster. It’s a question she has asked all her life, to all the many different monsters and hardships she has faced. She hopes now that she will finally receive an answer.  
  
Its tail wraps close around her once again and her act falters entirely but she tries to pretend it doesn’t, drawing her mouth from a trembling frown into a tight line as she screws her eyes shut; though she still lets out the most pitiful whimper when the tip of the dragon’s still curling tail rushes over one of her hands, drawing blood with its rough and scratching scales. The wound stings, but is more a welcomed distraction than a worry.  
  
Most small injuries are, for Noire. There is so much to think about, to be grateful for, to ponder, to question, that sometimes all she longs for is a slice across the skin to focus her mind on one thing as opposed to many. She’s very prone to cutting her fingertips on her arrows during practice and however unhealthy it may seem the sensation provides her with a relief like no other.  
  
So she tries, now desperate, to focus all of her attention to the dull throb of the gash across her palm, counting the little droplets of blood as they slip from her fingers like she were counting sheep in bed.  
  
“You are not special,” the creature breathes, and though probably insulting to anyone else Noire cannot say she expected any different. The answer is rather underwhelming, honestly. She’d come to that conclusion herself long ago. “You, unlike your comrades, were just in the right place at the right time.”  
  
Noire counts another 3 drops of blood before the dragon speaks again.  
  
“They struck my interest as great warriors, dependable people who I could trust with the safety and protection of my child. You were plucked from your time by pure coincidence. I could have taken any of the others just as easily.”  
  
Noire tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to remember that she is not speaking with mother. As much is it pains her to say, this wretched creature resembles Tharja in some odd way. Both calm yet mean spirited and cynical, and quick to remind her of her plainness. How easily she is replaced. Her mind thinks it terribly cruel that she compare her mother— the woman who’d raised her, the woman she had traveled through the very fabric of time to save— to a monster such as this, but her body knows the pain of untested curses and can react to her mother’s presence much the same way it is reacting to the beast in front of her.  
  
Finally, the dragon backs away, and Noire unconsciously takes a rather large gulp of air as it does so. Although her fragile newfound relief is shattered with the dragon’s next words. “You have, I am afraid, no choice in this matter. I require your help. You are to give it to me.”  
  
This makes things somehow so, so much worse.  
  
Choice and duty have always lurked in the corners of Noire’s life. Duty to her mother, choice to travel back and protect her. Duty to her comrades, choice to stand with them and change her future. They are intrinsically linked, though she has always disregarded one for the other. She has never taken choice into account, has always drawn from her inner passions and strengths and taken responsibility to fight no matter how afraid she is. There was no choice when it came to protecting her mother. There was no choice when it came to fighting with her friends. It was all duty.  
  
So her reluctance here spotlights her utter selfishness. She can imagine Owain now, insisting that he will help in any way he can. Severa, scoffing at the idea of backing down. Inigo, gently assuring that they will give their best to this cause. And here she is, abandoning her own beliefs in favor of her incomparable cowardice.  
  
Mother would be so disappointed.  
  
“Wh-when am I to leave?” she asks in a sigh, half in defeat and half in inspiration. “Where am I to go?”  
  
Her answer comes in the form of the beast’s great tail sweeping her legs out from beneath her, the blow causing her to cry out in pain and sending her down through the clouds and plummeting towards earth.      
  
The scream she lets out is ungodly.


	2. Chapter 2

The sting of dirt forced into the still open wound on her palm and the distant yet distinct crunch of approaching footsteps are what wakes her. The ground beneath her feels cold and dry, a stark contrast to the patches of fluffed and dewey grass she knows reside beneath her cot. She hasn’t fallen out of bed. She is not home.  
  
Noire blinks her eyes open as if roused from the sweetest sleep, though the reality is anything but. Her spine aches, her head pounds, and her limbs feel as if they’ve been hacked off with Father Libra’s dullest axe. She knows not how long she has been unconscious, as the sky is just as clouded and dark as it had been when she fell. The mere idea of movement sends a spark of pain through her sore body, but Noire knows the quicker she rises, the quicker she can find and hail a healer to repair whatever great damage has been done to her already frail body.  
  
She starts with a breath, deep and shuddering, and then gives an experimental wiggle of her fingers to check if they’re in working order. The dirt and rocks stick and scrape along her arms as she forces them into place, and she’s sure her nails and clothes must be caked in grass and grime. She pushes her torso up from the earth, heaving for breath as she does so, cursing her past self for not eating before bed. And, through the haze of her pain, she can make out the sound of two voices fast approaching.  
  
“Faster, faster,” cries the voice of a young girl, soon followed by a gleeful laugh and a set of giggles. Her laughter is soon joined by another voice, this one much deeper and more boisterous, though just as cheerful.  
  
“As my lady wishes!” it says, drawing a cheer of victory and some more giggles from its companion.  
  
They sound as if they’re coming from the opposite direction, and so Noire manages to twist herself  around just in time to see two figures bounding their way to her. A man with sun blonde hair and a face that looks as if it were chiseled from only the finest stone jogs his way through the dirt and dying grass of whatever field they happen to be occupying with an almost unbelievable vigour. Atop his shoulders sits a girl no older than fifteen, her rather voluminous pigtails bouncing to and fro as the man continues to skip about the field. The both of them are laughing so heartily that Noire can’t help the twitch of a smile that momentarily overtakes her frown.  
  
It doesn’t last long, however, as she attempts to maneuver her hips and legs to align with the rest of her body. A sharp, searing sort of pain claws it’s way up her body faster than Noire can blink and she lets out yet another gasping cry. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and before the two strangers can even think to turn towards her she’s crying like a baby.  
  
“Oh, oh no,” the girl cries out herself. “Oh, Arthur, set me down. We need to help to her!”  
  
It’s getting hard to pick out their voices through the awful ringing in her ears, and Noire has shut her eyes so tight she’s not sure they’ll ever open again, but she can feel herself being slowly pulled up into a sitting position. She’s propped against what she can only assume is someone’s knee and a pair of large hands keep her steady as she heaves for breath.  
  
“Are you all right?” asks the man, voice still loud but now full of concern.  
  
“What happened to you?” asks the girl immediately after, and Noire can feel her small hands brushing the dirt from her face.  
  
Noire takes another ragged inhale before answering. “I f-fell,” she croaks, voice quiet as always and now quite strained. She shifts her legs to sit up properly, hissing in pain as she does so. Tears still streak and dribble down her face, and she’s sure the grimace she’s pulling is far worse than any expression her blood and thunder can create, but she focuses less on that and more on the girl’s increasingly frantic words.  
  
“It really doesn’t look too good,” she continues to sweep dirt and dust from Noire’s face and shoulders, fingers somehow gentle and prodding at the same time. “I can help you a little, but we’ll need to bring you home with us to see a proper healer, okay?”  
  
Noire only nods, her strength completely sapped, and manages to get out a weak thank you before settling into a fit of coughs. She feels one of the girl’s small hands rubbing gently up and down her arm as her coughing peters out and is grateful beyond words. Though before she can attempt to voice her thanks once more, the clank and scrape of moving armour reaches her ears.  
  
“Effie!” the man calls out, one of his hands leaving Noire’s shoulder momentarily, presumably to wave this new stranger over.  
  
A new voice, deep and low but distinctly feminine, rings over the armour sounds. “Lady Elise? What’s going on?” the new presence asks, and the following crunch tells Noire that the woman has dropped to her knees to assess the situation. Noire opens one of her eyes, just barely, to get a look at her through the blur of her tears.  
  
The woman kneels in front of her, her face deadly serious, brows furrowed. Though she looks young, her hair is an ashen sort of white-gray and pulled back into a loose bun. Her armour is a faded red, polished but still speckled with dents and scrapes, and Noire can practically feel the battles the suit has gone through in just looking at it. The woman— Effie, if Noire heard correctly— carefully places a hand on Noire’s knee as the girl again closes her eyes.  
  
She opens her mouth as if to speak but the girl, Elise, speaks up instead. “Oh, this poor girl is hurt, Effie,” she cries, “I have a stave with me but it won’t be enough. We need to bring her back to the castle.”  
  
Castle. That sounds… terrifying. Somewhere in the back of her pain addled brain, Noire registers that Effie had referred to the girl with them as ‘lady’ Elise, meaning she’s probably bothering some poor noble with her injuries. Noire gulps.  
  
Suddenly, the man removes his hands from her shoulders, and before Noire can think to reopen her eyes she’s being pulled from the ground. She’s held gently but firmly against the strong metal of a chest plate. The coolness of the armour feels so nice against her heated and dirtied skin that Noire lets out a long, ragged sigh, momentarily forgetting her anxieties as she presses her forehead to the surprisingly relieving metal of Effie’s shoulder guards. She’s still in more pain than she thought possible, but at least she’s found someone to help.  
  
And help they do. Not long after Effie lifts her, Noire feels the calming chill of healing magic wash over her. It comes in waves, and the effect is so immediate and soothing that she can’t help but sigh again. “Th-thank you,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”  
  
“It’s no problem,” she hears Elise hum, and manages to open her eyes just long enough to see the girl twirling a stave between her fingers, a gentle smile adorning her face. She offers a more tentative one in return.  
  
They start to walk not long after, Effie still holding Noire close even after her pain has substantially subsided. She finds now that she can keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds, and her tears have stopped flowing; their tracks still feel fresh and sticky on her face, but she’s grateful that they’ve stopped.  
  
She uses this opportunity to take in some of her surroundings. The grounds they’re treading are dry and dying, the grasses more brown than green and the dirt audibly crunching beneath her saviours’ boots. The trees are all willows, hunching low to the ground, their depressed branches swaying passively in the wind. There is an impenetrable fog surrounding them still, clouding most of her view and making it nigh impossible to tell the time of day simply by looking at the sky, which itself seems rather dark and polluted. And of course, getting nearer and nearer, is the castle that Elise had spoken of. It’s absolutely enormous, towering tall and dark over all else in the area, no doubt casting a shadow over everything as well. Its black, bricked walls look cold and impossibly clean, and Noire suddenly dreads meeting those inside if she’s this scared of its outside.  
  
They veer away from the main entrance and head instead for a smaller door off to the side, no doubt reluctant to cause a scene by dragging in some beaten and battered girl from the grounds. Noire doesn’t blame them. She’s rather grateful, actually.  
  
“Big sis should know how to help,” Elise pipes up, turning back to give Noire another smile. Effie hums in agreement.  
  
The still nameless man laughs, terribly loud, and smiles. “Yes indeed,” he says with a grin, “our lady Camilla has always been good with taking care of injuries.”  
  
“You would know, Arthur, she patches up enough of yours,” huffs Effie above her, and Noire is thankful to finally have a name for the man.  
  
The joke seems to be lost on him, for he just smiles all the wider and nods in agreement. Elise gives a giggle at their antics before lowering her now broken stave. Noire finds her spine still aching, her head still swimming, but she feels so, so much better than she had when the three had found her and honestly considers it nothing short of a miracle. She did fall straight from the heavens, after all.  
  
“She used to be a troubadour, like me,” Elise states proudly, grinning even wider than Arthur. Something flashes through her eyes, then. A strike of envy, a dash of sadness, but it disappears as it quickly as it came.  
  
Elise creaks open a set of old double doors, and the scent of fresh bread hits Noire’s nose almost instantly, reminding her of how terribly hungry she is.    
  
“Camilla,” Elise calls into the large room, stretching out the A, and following it up with a slight more surprised, “Xander!” There’s a brief silence while Arthur waltzes his way into the kitchens behind the girl, and Effie enters soon after with Noire still in hand. “I need your help,” Elise states, serious.  
  
Before anything else can be said, a man with luscious blonde hair and a gruff, suspicion-laced voice speaks up. “Elise,” he says, glaring. “Who is this?” Beside him sit two very intimidating looking women. One with a rather childish face, and two matted pigtails dyed in shades of blue and pink, the other with a much more mature look, and long, thick purple hair that obscures her left eye.  
  
Effie has set her down now, still holding out an arm for Noire to balance herself on as she tries to regain feeling in her legs. Elise looks between Noire and the man for a short moment, worry clear in her eyes, before answering him. “We found her on the grounds. She’s hurt, I could only help her so much.”  
  
A fourth figure rises from behind the blue-haired woman, and the rest of Elise’s explanation of the situation is lost to Noire, because who is standing there in front of her now but Inigo. He looks the same yet so very different. His face is fuller, more defined, and his hair is a lighter gray; somewhat warmer than the deeper, more steel-like color she had last seen him with.  
  
When she looks up at his face, his eyes are wide with shock, no doubt very confused by Noire’s presence. All the other noise in the room fades as they lock eyes, and Noire can hear her heart thundering in her chest, her mind screaming, because _it’s Inigo_. He’s _alive_ , he’s _here_.  
  
And she can’t help it. Gods, she can’t help but force her trembling legs forward to collapse onto him, holding tight to the front of his shirt and sighing his name into his shoulder. “Inigo,” she says again, bordering on tears.  
  
All is quiet as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. He’d faltered for a moment, but she can hear the relief in his voice when he murmurs her name into her hair.  
  
Their stillness is interrupted only when she’s pulled back by her shirt collar and torn from Inigo’s arms like she’d been trying to poison him. Her ensuing cry comes out half gargled by the material of her shirt being pulled tight against her throat.  
  
The blonde man leers down at her, his stare venomous, his mouth drawn into a tight line. “What she needs,” he says, responding to something Noire had no doubt missed during her and Inigo’s brief but intense reunion, “is to remove herself from my _retainer_.”  
  
Noire is shoved back towards Elise and Effie catches her by the elbows, trying her best to keep her upright. When she looks back to Inigo, the woman with the pigtails has him by the arm and is glaring daggers straight into Noire’s soul, her lips raised in a silent snarl. Her other hand hovers, twitching, above the handle of a sword hooked to her belt.  
  
“Xander!” Elise protests, stepping forward as if to shield Noire from the man. He does not bend.  
  
“No, Elise.” He pushes past her, advancing on Noire until he is merely centimetres away. “Who _are_ you,” he breathes, and Noire backs up into Effie’s arms, shaking, _terrified_.  
  
If this Xander were perhaps smaller, the room perhaps colder, this would feel much like her first meeting with her mother.  
  
_Noire had emerged from that broken and dusty holding cell angry, upset, bow drawn taut and ready to fire at anything her panicked brained deemed a threat. Chrom and his fellow shepards were scattered all about, focused solely on fending off the cowardly slavers who’d kidnapped her, their enraged cries of victory mingling with the screech of metal tearing metal. From the edges of her blackening vision, Noire had spotted a wyvern rider headed her way, and acting purely on survival instinct had sent an arrow its way as she scrambled backwards. Her eyes wide, chest heaving, she watched as Robin slipped from the back of Cherche’s dragon, an arrow lodged deep into her shoulder._  
  
_And though distressing— she had just injured Lucina’s mother, and narrowly missed Gerome’s— Noire did not lay down her bow. She whipped another arrow from her quiver, trembling like a leaf, and again pulled her bowstring back to the ready. As Robin began limping towards her, arms held out to show she was no threat, Noire’s mind had been filled only with fear, destruction, and Grima. But, before she could again injure the poor tactician, she was blasted back by a strike of Elthunder. The magic had seared her skin, singed her clothing, and brought her face to face with her mother._  
  
_Tharja was a whirlwind of fury, shadowy tendrils and sparks of lightning pooling at her feet. Noire recognized the tome Tharja held as the one she’d kept in her trunk, as a memorial._  
  
_“Who are you,” her mother spat, eyes dark and dangerous, “to dare and hurt my Robin.”_  
  
She’s brought back into reality when Xander takes a fistful of her shirt, pulling Noire harsh towards him. The claw-like notches on the knuckles of his armoured gloves dig into the skin of her collarbone. “Answer me,” he whispers, angry. “Who are you?”  
  
Noire is breathing hard but shallow, her exhales rocking through her tired body, her trembling only worsening under Xander’s intense stare. Her mind is still half in the past, mingling the face of her kidnappers with Xander’s hard eyes, meshing her mother’s voice with Elise’s, distorting her world entirely. Inigo is staring at her, face contorted in desperation— no doubt aware of what Noire is going through— but he’s still held back by his companion.  
  
“Xander,” a new voice breaks through Noire’s panic, and everyone in the room turns to face its source. The other woman has stood from her place at the table, an expression of disappointment painting her face. Elise murmurs beside her and Noire can now pinpoint the woman as Camilla, the one they’d come searching for in the first place.  
  
Camilla, walks towards the still seething Xander, slow, purposeful, seemingly unaffected by his anger. She places a hand on his armoured shoulder and narrows her eyes. “Let her be,” she says, voice even but laced with a certain unmistakable disdain. “She’s in no shape to do us any harm. And frankly, she doesn’t look as if she _could_ harm us, well or not.”  
  
Noire doesn’t dare amend this statement and neither does Inigo, though they both know that with the power of her talisman Noire would put up a deadly fight.  
  
Xander loosens his grip on Noire’s collar. Camilla frowns.  
  
“Xander,” she repeats, disciplinary in her icy calm. Xander growls, relinquishes his grip, and lets Noire tumble back into Effie’s arms once more. He turns on his heel, violet cape swishing across Noire’s blurring field of vision, the garment’s warm color a contrast to his cold actions.  
  
“I will speak with her in the morning,” he grits, letting out a loud exhale. He then turns to the still awestruck Inigo, saying, “Laslow, Peri, come with me.”  
  
Seemingly against his will— and under a different name— Inigo follows the still frustrated man, turning back to gaze at Noire, almost as if trying to communicate something to her, as the pigtailed woman pushes him out the kitchen door. She too turns back to face Noire, brows furrowed and mouth drawn into a protective frown, baring her teeth not unlike a feral animal, before disappearing into the hallway.  
  
The silence is deafening. Noire wants to cry.  
  
Camilla is the first to speak, letting out a long sigh and tucking some strands of her lilac hair behind her ear, closing her eyes in thought. “Run along, Elise,” she says with her inhale, turning to look at Noire. “I will take care of her.”  
  
Elise is reluctant, that much is clear, but Camilla gives her a look of pleading and she slowly turns to leave, head bowed as she slips through the door. Arthur follows suite, uncharacteristically quiet. Effie stays, if only for a few moments, to make sure Noire is at least somewhat balanced on her feet. Her eyes are soft, worried, and she only leaves when Camilla shoots her the same look she’d given Elise, armour still clanking and creaking as does.  
  
So now she is alone, in the dark of the kitchens, with the tall and intimidating Camilla.  
  
The woman approaches Noire slowly. She lays a hand on the girl’s shoulder, her touch hesitant, immediately retracting it when Noire flinches. She still can’t think straight, can’t breathe, and she hadn’t realized she was crying until Camilla brushes some tears from her cheeks with a featherlight touch.  
  
“Poor dear,” she coos, “I’m sorry he scared you so.”  
  
Noire is frozen now, petrified, unmoving under Camilla’s touch. Her mind is starting to set itself right, bringing her slowly back to the present and detangling images of her past from the realities of what’s in front of her. Camilla no longer looks like the thin, wiry Plegian who’d tied her up. The kitchen floors no longer feel like the jagged and broken ground of the holding cell. It’s not real. None of it is real.  
  
Camilla’s hands are a steadying force, helping to keep Noire grounded, helping to keep her from collapsing right then and there.  
  
“Easy, now.” Camilla’s hands slide down to her shoulders, a soft and comforting weight that Noire tries to focus on. “Let’s make you some tea,” she offers in a whisper, and Noire nods wordlessly.  
  
Camilla hums in approval and sits her down at the table, gently patting her shoulder before drifting off into the pantry. She continues humming all the while, a simple melody, meant to remind Noire that she is not alone. She emerges a short while later, steaming teacup in hand, and gives Noire a reassuring smile before setting the cup down in front of her. It’s chamomile, Noire notes, taking in a breath of the sweet steam.  
  
They sit in silence at first, Camilla letting Noire have space to calm down, watching her shaking hands as she tries not to spill her tea, before finally asking what Xander had been demanding just minutes ago, albeit much more gently.  
  
“What’s your name, dear?”  
  
“Noire.” She takes another slow sip of tea, and shudders as it slides down her throat. “M-My name is Noire.”  
  
“A lovely name,” Camilla smiles, resting her chin on one hand. “Are you feeling any better?”  
  
Noire thinks for a moment, preforms a small self-assessment, and answers in a sigh. “M-Much,” she pauses to breathe, “though I… d-don’t believe I’ll be awake mu-much longer.”  
  
It’s the most she’s spoken since her encounter with the dragon, and the words feel like brick in her mouth, heavy and unnatural. Camilla doesn’t seem to mind her awkwardness or her honesty, and merely nods and says, “Well, we can’t have you sleeping here. At least let me take you upstairs, to a proper bed.”  
  
Tired, sore, and losing consciousness, Noire agrees without a second thought. A bed sounds very, very nice right now. Especially after all she’s been through.  
  
She doesn’t fight when Camilla eases the teacup from her still shaking hands. She doesn’t fight when Camilla lifts her into her arms. She doesn’t fight as they mount the stairs, or when Camilla tells her to close her eyes, or when Camilla stops their trek to speak with someone.  
  
She can just manage to hear their hushed tones through the fog of approaching sleep.  
  
“Who is that,” a stranger asks. “Camilla, _who is that?_ _"_  
  
“A friend of Laslow’s, dear,” answers Camilla, calm as ever. “Though I think you already knew that.”  
  
Feeling someone brush her bangs from her eyes, Noire sighs into Camilla’s shoulder, tries to tune out their voices, and remembers the nights Severa spent with her in the medical tent, the things she’d whisper while stroking Noire’s hair.  
  
_“What am I going to do with you?”_  
  
And then, she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pardon any errors;; it's rather late and i'm Rather Tired of looking at this


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teary reunion cuddles.png

Noire is rescued from a cold, cruel dream by warm, familiar hands.  
  
The feeling is common enough, Brady would often wake her from fever dreams in such a manner, holding her face in his calloused hands and coaxing her back to consciousness with the promise of more soup, his voice quiet and pleading.  
  
She twitches, groans, and casts away her thoughts of Grima. Instead, she— rather reluctantly— brings her hand up from the warmth of the covers and swipes at the fingers threading through her bangs. She hears a laugh, soft and full of fondness.  
  
“Awake yet?” calls a voice that she _knows_ , and Noire sits up so quickly she swears she gets whiplash.  
  
She bonks her forehead against Severa’s on her way up, and they immediately pull apart to nurse their new wounds. Severa swears, cursing all manner of dragon and deity, and Noire hears Inigo start to wheeze with laughter from across the room. He sits in a chair nearer the end of her bed, holding his stomach, doubled over. His smile is gorgeous in exactly the way Noire remembers, and though her forehead aches she smiles as well, filled with relief.  
  
“There she is,” Inigo finally says, a hum on the end of another sigh of laughter. He wipes a few tears from the corners of his eyes. “Back to the world of the living.”  
  
“W-World of the living?” Noire questions, rolling her shoulders. She’s terribly stiff, but feels well rested nonetheless.  
  
Severa scoffs, slim fingers prodding the sore patch on her forehead. “You’ve been dead asleep for hours,” she supplies, “not a thing could wake you.” A smile lights her face during the following pause, almost involuntary, entirely genuine. “…You’re here,” she says simply, breathless.  
  
The warmth of her gaze is new and beautiful, filling Noire with a crisp and burning elation. Inigo, too, sends a smile her way, though his eyes quickly soften, eyebrows turning upwards as he utters a single question. “Why _are_ you here?”  
  
The pure concern in his voice is enough to send Noire over the edge of composure.  
  
She can’t quite discern if her tears are those of happiness or upset, but it hardly matters, because Severa and Inigo are by her side in an instant, gathering her in their arms. Severa wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close, while Inigo scrambles to take her hands in his, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles in a gesture of comfort.  
  
“There, there,” he soothes, “it’s all right. You’re all right.”  
  
Severa squeezes her shoulder. “C’mon now,” she says, huffing. “At least say hello before you start the waterworks.”  
  
Noire gives a weak and watery laugh at that, unspeakably grateful to hear Severa’s teasing again. She thinks, then, of being by the fireside, of Severa’s snipes and quips in the middle of Nah’s stories or Yarne’s rambling. Morgan’s laughter, Cynthia’s grin, the moments of peace among their war. The memory is warm, and only pushes more tears from her, which Severa reaches out to help brush away as Inigo squeezes her hands. He shifts awkwardly on his knees for a another few moments before leaning up to plant a kiss on Noire’s forehead.  
  
The action leaves Noire stunned, and upon pulling back, Inigo smiles lopsidedly, and says, “I bet your smile is still so very pretty, may I see it?”  
  
Severa reaches out to slap his arm.  
  
“Laslow,” she scolds, eyes fiery, “now is _so_ not the time for bad lines!”  
  
“I’m sorry!” He rolls his eyes, but is much more mirthful than annoyed. “It’s my only talent,” he defends, “I have to put it to use _somehow_.”  
  
Severa grimaces. “I think you need to reconsider your use of the word talent.”  
  
Noire giggles at this, now far more relaxed and slightly less teary, simply enjoying her friends’ familiar banter as well as their embrace. It definitely wasn’t often that Severa would hold her like this in front of another, and Inigo’s physical affections were more often directed at women around town rather than other shepherds, let alone Noire. Eased as she is, Noire is still curious about one thing, and as she opens her mouth to question it, the door flies open with all of the force of a Feroxi hurricane.  
  
“I came as quick as I could!” shouts Owain, face specked with dirt, eyes wide, clothes haphazard and loose. “Is it true? Is she here?”  
  
His chest heaves as if he had sprinted from far away, and the second his frantic gaze locks onto Noire he moves again, striking like lightning as he launches himself into the tangle of limbs on the bed. His arms immediately find their way around Noire’s waist, holding her close. His knees dig into Inigio’s legs and one of his elbows is lodged in Severa’s ribs, but neither of them can really bring themselves to mind all too much. Though Severa still makes a point to nudge his arm aside.  
  
Odin nuzzles his face into Noire’s stomach and she’s crying all over again now, relief pouring into every piece of her body because _they’re all here_. They’re here, and they’re _alive_. They’ve been gone for weeks, months, and Noire had thought them dead. She had thought them destroyed, laid low by some straggling risen, or taken away by Plegian soldiers still bitter and desperate to avenge their king. And she’s missed them so, so much. Missed Owain’s snorting laughter, his poetry, his hands over hers as he tried to teach her the ways of the sword. She missed Severa’s sharp tongue, their nights spent together laughing with Brady and Libra in the soft candlelight of the medical tent, her strangely motherly tone as she shooed the others out of the kitchen for dinner. She missed Inigo’s dances, the sound of he and his mother’s voices carrying lightly across camp in the late hours of the evening, his infectious smile— _everything_.  
  
“I m-missed you.” Noire’s voice bubbles up from her throat in a sob, aching, agonized. “I missed you so m-m-much…”  
  
Owain rises, shifts, and takes Severa’s place on Noire’s left side. Severa moves behind her as Owain pulls her into his chest. She starts to rub up and down Noire’s back, and when Inigo begins to sniffle in turn she gives a short sigh and reaches out to hold his shoulder as well.  
  
“We missed you too,” Owain assures as he rocks Noire side to side. “We missed you like the moon longs for the sun, dearest Night Sky.” He too starts to sniffle, resolve breaking, a smile stretching across his face. He holds her tighter.  
  
Severa scoffs at the old nickname though there is nothing malicious behind it. It’s rather weak, really, as is her voice when she speaks. “Stop crying, idiots,” she grumbles, sounding close to tears herself, leaning in to rest her forehead against the back of Noire’s shoulder, shuddering.  
  
Inigo runs his sleeve across his face to wipe away the wetness accumulating on his cheeks, and Owain sighs into Noire’s hair. Noire’s body still shakes and shivers, but wrapped in Owain’s arms, with Inigo’s fingers laced in hers and Severa leaned up against her, Noire feels nothing but safety and happiness. She can’t help the tears, can’t help the tightness with which she grips Owain’s sleeves.  
  
They all rest like that for a few more moments, a most wonderful silence settling over them, which Severa breaks with a shaky laugh.  
  
“Gods,” she sniffles, “I can’t believe I let you clowns get me this emotional.”  
  
Noire’s resulting laugh still sounds a bit like a cry but it doesn’t matter. Inigo is giggling not unlike a child, and Owain’s smile somehow grows more. “Noire,” he says, voice regaining some of its usual energy. “Tell us, how are the others? Our parents?”  
  
Noire takes a moment to try and stabilize her breath before answering. “They’re… struggling.” Owain’s face falls. “They m-miss you. We all do…” Briefly, Noire wonders if the others have started searching for her yet. If they’ve started to worry.  
  
Severa shifts behind her, wraps her arms around Noire’s waist, murmuring into her shoulder. “What about Lucina?  
  
Her uncharacteristically somber tone tells Noire that Severa hasn’t truly recovered from all this emotional upset, and has no doubt already put together what Noire is going to say. A quick and nervous glance towards Owain and Inigo’s faces shows that they too know _exactly_ how Lucina is.  
  
She is ruined, to put it simply. Lucina had been their leader, the glue holding them together, a strong and stoic force for the others to gravitate towards. She cared for them all deeply, serving almost as a mother figure alongside being their commander, their princess, their Exalt. She had already lost them all once before, in the cross over between their war-torn time and the days of their parents’ youth. She’d blamed herself most thoroughly for it, had assured them all it would never happen again, that she’d do anything for protect them, to keep them safe after all they’d been through. Noire remembers her words with stinging clarity.  
  
_“This will be our last war.”_  
  
When Inigo, Owain, and Severa were pronounced missing, Lucina _broke_. This time, she knew nothing. This time, she had no way to fix things.  
  
Noire squeezes Inigo’s hand for strength. The words won’t leave her throat. She knows their next questions before they can even think to ask them. About Brady, Owain’s _brother_ , now to rest _alone_ in the medical tent for days on end. Or Nah, already abandoned once, losing those who had helped put her back together. Or Yarne, so scared of his own demise, having to watch his friends slowly disappear into thin air, thinking he’ll be next.  
  
She starts an answer, opens and closes her mouth uselessly, before deciding against it and turning to bury her face in Owain’s collar. “I… let’s not talk about it,” she pleads, voice muffled against Owain’s clothes.  
  
“She’s right,” says Inigo, though there is a reluctance to his voice that suggests he’s dying to hear about those he’d left back home. “Let’s leave it be for the moment. Rather, why don’t you tell us how you ended up here?”  
  
Noire swallows back nausea at the memory of that foul dragon, body going rigid, mind reeling with the phantom pain of hitting the ground. “I w-was stolen,” she explains, “by a d-dragon. He sent me to help find his d-d-daughter.” She pauses for a moment, forcing herself to remember the beast’s words. “He… sent me to help you.”  
  
Inigo’s trim brows furrow, and Owain gives a rather doubtful hum. Severa is much more direct in her reaction.  
  
“What the hell?” she snaps, bristling. “That doesn’t sound like the Anankos _we_ met.”  
  
“True,” Inigo nods, face serious. “When you say stolen…”  
  
“F-from my bed,” Noire answers, murmuring. “He brought me to the clouds and-“ she stops short, throat dry, and coughs. Severa holds her a little tighter. “Dr-dropped me here.”  
  
“Dropped?” asks Owain, concern seeping easily into his voice.  
  
“You were looking rather worse for wear when I saw you last night,” says Inigo. “Effie had to carry you in.”  
  
“It’s a wonder you can still move,” Severa marvels, though it comes out more scolding then anything else. Still, Noire knows how Severa is, and slips one of her hands from Inigo’s, blindly patting around her waist for Severa’s, joining their hands to show her thanks for the concern.  
  
A silence settles over them once again. Thick, therapeutic, and comforting. They exchange no more words, no more questions, simply resting against each other, grateful to be reunited.  
  
And then, their peace is interrupted by the door cracking open. Though Noire can’t remember Owain ever closing it. She flinches into Owain’s chest, startled by the sudden noise. Peri enters soon after, a grim smile stretched across her face. She’s already dressed to the nines in a full suit of armour, a lance strapped to the back of her chest plate, its sharp blade glinting in the light.  
  
A sense of dread quickly seems to settle over the four of them, and Severa scrambles to hide herself behind Noire, rubbing viciously at her remaining tears to prevent Peri from seeing her weakness.  
  
“Laslow!” Peri greets, cheery, menacing, before turning to Noire. “Laslow stealer! Lord Xander wants to see you.” She turns on her heel to leave and her lance scrapes a gash into the wooden door behind her as she twirls. “Oh,” she adds, craning her neck to grin at Noire, holding her gaze for much longer than the girl would prefer. “You’d better hurry! Milord is angry this morning.”  
  
With that, she makes her exit, and before Noire can begin to entertain her new thousand anxieties, she raises her head Owain’s chest to speak. “Laslow?” she questions, thinking on Peri’s words for another moment before speaking again. “Laslow stealer?”  
  
Inigo gives a long and shaky sigh as he drops Noire’s hands and stands from the bed. “Peri is… strange,” he offers with a shrug.  
  
Noire feels Severa shift and rise behind her, and her voice is just the slightest bit clipped when she snaps. “She meant the name, dumbass.” Inigo’s face explodes in a brilliant blush and Severa makes a point to bump their shoulders together as she joins him, smirking.  
  
“Ah yes,” Owain exclaims, saving poor Inigo from having to speak further. “Our new brands, aliases meant to protect our new comrades from the glory of our true monikers!”    
  
“We were told to disguise our names,” Severa translates, rolling her eyes at Owain’s recovery of his usual flowery speech and watching as he helps Noire to stand. Owain sticks his tongue out at her. “Mine is the easiest to remember,” she proclaims proudly, “it’s Selena.”  
  
Owain grins, holding a hand to his chest dramatically. “My name, is Odin Dark! My exalted sword hand has retired, and instead I am a fierce wielder of dark magic.” His smile tells Noire that he is truly proud of both his new name and his new powers, and she can’t help but smile in return, feeling her own sense of pride for her friend.  
  
“Mine, as you’ve probably guessed, is Laslow,” Inigo shrugs again, bashful, face still slightly flushed with embarrassment.  
  
Noire’s legs still shake as she stretches, and her body feels a touch brittle, but overall the pain of last night’s fall has disappeared. She can just barely make out the shine of a new scar across her palm in the light. She can only assume that Camilla had sent a healer for her after she’d fallen asleep, and reminds herself to thank Camilla when next they meet; for the tea, for healing her wounds, and for saving her— if only momentarily— from Xander.  
  
Peri’s warning suddenly registers within her muddled, still exhausted brain, and Noire gulps. “Xander is… angry?” she squeaks, shuffling over to join her friends as Owain— or Odin, now— steps into the hallway. Laslow waits for her to reach his side before he answers, resting a hand on her shoulder to guide her out of the room.  
  
“Milord had… a bit of a row with Lady Elise this morning,” he explains. His face takes on a rather sullen look and Noire begins to regret asking. “Tensions between the family have been rather high as of late.”  
  
“That’s an understatement,” Selena says in a bark of laughter. Odin grimaces.  
  
As they continue what Noire is sure will be their funeral march to Xander’s quarters, she spots two rather suspicious looking people leaning against the wall with Peri, just across from the room she’d been sleeping in. A small, lithe looking girl who keeps her eyes trained solely on Noire as they walk past, and a taller, dark skinned man with thick white hair who raises his hand to give the four of them a dainty little wave.  
  
“Fucking Niles,” Selena mutters.  
  
“And Beruka,” Laslow reminds in a mocking sort of sing-song tone. Selena shoots him a glare and he merely smiles in return, while Odin turns a blind eye to their banter, whistling innocently.  
  
Noire shivers, feeling their gazes boring into her back, and leans further into Laslow’s one-armed embrace. She can already feel her stomach flipping, her nerves fizzling, filling her with a certain restlessness that she knows will only worsen with the conversation she’s about to partake in. Her head spins with fear, and she’s certain her skin has gone deathly white, judging by the worried glances Odin continues to give her over his shoulder. Laslow pulls her closer when she begins to shake.  
  
The doors to Xander’s quarters are large and ornate, a deep purple decorated with the most beautiful gold garnishes. Two large knockers which bare the shape of lions’ heads rest on either door, and Selena frowns as she takes one in her hand. The arrhythmic thump of the metal hitting the wood beneath it makes Noire’s skin crawl. She’s _doomed_.  
  
Xander’s voice is only slightly audible through the thick wood. “Come in,” he calls, sounding tired.  
  
He looks just as exhausted when they all enter, surrounded by papers and quills. His bright blonde curls are held back from his eyes by a simple band of cloth, resembling the headband worn by the girl they’d passed in the hallway. He is only semi suited, missing a shoulder guard on one side, his cape, and his gloves. He straightens up as they all file in, looking them all over in an excruciating silence.  
  
“Of course,” he groans suddenly, and Laslow instinctively takes a step forward. “You all know each other. Of course.”  
  
Odin smiles guiltily in response. Selena shrugs, Laslow hangs his head in shame, and Noire wonders how they can all remain so calm in the face of someone so _terrifying_.  
  
“Take a seat,” Xander sighs. “All of you.” He waits patiently for them to gather before his desk, and looks at Noire with an indiscernible expressions all the while. “First off,” he swallows, “I would… like to apologize for my actions last night.”  
  
Noire blinks.  
  
“Elise informs me I may have been too harsh.” Noire is still frozen, staring wide-eyed at her hands in her lap, completely disbelieving. Xander continues. “As crown prince, it is my duty to protect both this castle and my siblings. Things have been difficult as of late, and I may have treated you with far more malice than necessary, for which I apologize.”  
  
His explanation, while appreciated, does nothing to quell Noire’s anxieties, due to two small words. Crown. Prince. She’s fallen into the hands of a royal family, bothered not one, but _two_ princesses with her injuries, and angered the eldest prince with her presence. She could _die_. She could die right here and now, perish from cardiac arrest from the very thought of burdening an _entire_ royal family.  
  
She nods stiffly, whimpering, gripping uselessly at her talisman.  
  
There’s a brief silence before the prince again begins to speak. “I still require some answers from you, however.” Someone reaches out to hold Noire’s hand and she swears she’ll give them her soul in thanks.  
  
The first of Lord Xander’s questions is obvious. “What is your relation to my retainer?”  
  
She remembers the word from the night before, when he had forced her away from Laslow, and deducts that the question is related to him. “W-W-We g-grew up together,” she supplies, trying and failing to keep her voice even. It trembles and shakes with the same ferocity as her body, sounding more like a shiver than real speech. Xander looks to Laslow as if to confirm her answer, and the boy nods vigorously.  
  
Selena tells him they fought together most of their lives, tone defensive. Odin, speech still laced in metaphor and color, tells the Lord that they come from a land far away, and Laslow adds in the detail of them becoming separated when he, Odin, and Selena had been sent to Nohr. Xander’s eyes narrow further with every answer, and his thick brows scrunch together as if he’s trying to solve an intense equation.  
  
“How… How did you get here?” he asks finally, voice gruff and tired, laced with confusion.  
  
“Well,” Odin starts, looking up to the ceiling, feigning the need to remember the details. “Laslow, Selena and I were approached by a hooded man who called himself Anankos.” Xander startles at this, but Odin pays no mind and continues on. “He begged us to assist him, asking for our knowledge and battle expertise in order to help in retrieving his lost heir from this low earth.”  
  
There’s a dead silence when he finishes. Xander lays his head in his hands, sighing. “Laslow. Selena. What really happened?”  
  
“Exactly that, Milord,” Laslow offers, voice rising in pitch as his words come to a halt, making them sound closer to a question than a confirmation. Xander looks to Selena, face unabashedly pleading.  
  
She gives a short sigh. “I don't know what to tell you, Lord Xander. The boys  are telling the truth. That’s what happened.”  
  
There’s another period of silence and Noire wishes for lightning to strike her dead on the spot. Her chest is unbearably tight, her vision dancing, and she’s only now realizing she still hasn’t eaten a thing. Laurent would kill her, were he here.  
  
“Go,” Xander mutters after a few more minutes of the painful quiet. “Go, go,” he repeats. Noire and the others scramble to stand and leave, and as they’re closing the door Noire can just barely hear Xander say, “Gods, my head hurts,” under his breath.  
  
The door closes with a loud thud of finality, and before Noire can finally let loose and allow the anxiety of everything to overtake her, she finds herself face to face with Camilla, as well as the two from earlier, Niles and Beruka.  
  
“What’d you do?” Niles hums.  
  
“What did he want?” Beruka follows, voice much quieter.  
  
Camilla sighs at the both of them, nudging Niles’ shoulder and giving Beruka a stern look. “How did it go? How are you feeling?” she asks, nodding towards Noire.  
  
Laslow groans. “It-“  
  
“Could’ve been better,” Selena finishes, making her way to Beruka’s side, gripping lightly at the girl’s shirtsleeves.  
  
“It could’ve been worse,” Odin counters from his new place behind Niles.  
  
Noire looks up to meet Camilla’s expectant gaze. “He’s still scary,” she murmurs pathetically, looking away, ashamed. She’s insulting the _crown prince_ , after all, _Camilla’s brother_.  
  
Surprisingly, she seems unaffected. “Well,” she begins, smiling. “Why don’t you and I take to the baths, then? Some hot water would do you good.”  
  
Seeing Selena nod in agreement from the edges of her vision, Noire allows herself to accept Camilla’s offer, nodding slowly. Camilla smiles again, pleased with Noire’s answer, and motions for the girl to follow her as she starts off down the long hallway. Selena and Beruka trail behind, sticking close, leaving Niles, Laslow, and Odin alone to bicker amongst themselves.  
  
The baths are enormous compared to anything they had in Ylisse, and feel of the hot steam mixed with the soft scents of various floral soaps helps to put Noire at ease, as do the lulls and lilts of Camilla’s voice as she speaks to Selena and Beruka. The words mean little to Noire, and serve as a small distraction from the fact that she’s about to show strangers her body.  
  
She’s slow to remove her shirt, and with her nervous glances catches sight of Selena’s already mostly nude form. She can name the cause of many scars that she sees on the girl’s body, but tries to hold back her surprise when Selena turns to face away from her, revealing a rather long and deep stretch of scarring across her muscled back. She does not remember this one.  
  
“Are you coming, dear?” Camilla calls, and Noire makes the mistake of turning around.  
  
Camilla clearly lacks the shame that Noire is fighting with, showing off her beautiful body and numerous scars without so much as care. Beruka, too, seems indifferent to having others see her old wounds, and Noire tries _not_ to notice the way Beruka’s freckles dot down her back and shoulders.  
  
She’s thinking too much of this, of course. Everyone is fine and here she is, just like usual, cowering in the corner, pathetic as always. She doesn’t register the frustration building in her chest, barely catches the soft glow of her talisman, and before she knows it her shirt and pants have been discarded; exposing her weak, gangly body as she follows behind the other three.  
  
She’s full of marks, scars, and freckles much less appealing than Beruka’s. Her chest is marred with a burn scar from her first encounter with Tharja, and her shoulders are rimmed with calloused rings, the result of a hex that had switched her arms around for an entire day. There are many other wounds from curses, from spells. The blackened splotch on the back of her neck, her nose crooked from a bone-breaking hex. And of course, the clean, diagonal slice on her forearm, gained after her first and last attempt at blood magic.  
  
They’re all terrible marks, evidence of her failures as both a mage and a subject. She’d never liked having Tharja tend to them. Never liked letting her poor mother see her daughter’s blaring signs of weakness.  
  
“Don’t drown on me.”  
  
The sudden voice brings Noire from her thoughts. She blinks harshly, once, twice, and raises her mouth from beneath the water’s surface. She doesn’t remember ever getting in.  
  
Selena sits beside her, long, silken pigtails now undone, hair pooling around her. A little ways off, Beruka helps Camilla to wash her hair, and Camilla hums a happy little tune in response, smiling as she does so.  
  
“Sorry,” Noire mutters, glancing down at Selena through her wet bangs.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Selena dismisses, rolling her eyes. “Just help me wash my damn hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! had some computer troubles coupled with a bit of writer's block;; (also please forgive any mistakes, this got really long and my head is killing me)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christ okay first of all Wow sorry for the over-a-month long wait?? secondly as you can probably guess by that big break i had A Lot of trouble getting this chap out so sorry if it sounds weird or forced in some places??

There’s little more satisfying than the sound of an arrow hitting its mark.   
  
It feels good to again have a bow in her hands, a small sense of normalcy in the chaos Noire’s life has turned into, and she feels now indebted to Camilla, for all her former kindnesses as well as the new bow. She relishes in the feeling of the bowstring digging into her bare fingers, revels in the whistle of her arrows through the air, taking comfort in the familiar movements and stretches of her archery. It’s been such a long time since she’s practiced purely for sport, practiced without the threat of battle looming over her. It’s liberating, a strange sort of emotional outlet that helps to clear her head.   
  
Some distant part of her wishes she had sparred with Kjelle more, if this is what it felt like.  
  
With her senses dulled and distracted, she doesn’t notice the presence of a certain stranger until he speaks.  
  
“You’re quite good,” comments Niles, offering Noire a charming smile as she spins on her heel to face him. “Why, I’d say you’re almost as good as I am.” He takes a step closer to her, examining Noire’s posture and stance with a quick, sweeping glance.   
  
Noire’s shoulders rise and lock as the man approaches, and her eyes frantically follow his gaze. It feels far too clinical, too predatory, and she finds her mind whirling with the idea of him scrutinizing her form and aim, judging her ability to fight, to win. His smile widens.  
  
“Though,” he says lowly, a whisper, a secret. “I am _very_ good at what I do.”   
  
His tone is bordering on lecherous, his eyes glint with mischievous intent, and it’s clear that his words are meant to be taken sexually. Noire _shudders_. Her mind screams for her to run, but her body remains locked in place, both her instincts and her damned talisman pulling her indecisively between fight and flight.   
  
Something in Niles’ face changes with her reaction, and he steps away. He crosses his arms, and again looks her over, before speaking again. “Odin wants you to stay,” he says simply.   
  
Noire relaxes, if only slightly, and shakily notches another arrow. Niles waits for her to fire.   
  
“As do Laslow, and Selena.”  
  
“And?” Noire snaps, nerves and magic mixing together to dampen her mood. “Are w-we just stating the obvious?”   
  
Niles seems to startle, but recovers quickly, grinning. “My, my. Here I thought you a lamb, but perhaps you’re wolf instead.”  
  
That drains Noire of her fighting spirit— as well as her color, calmness, and composure, all in one fell swoop. The world rocks beneath her, growing cold, but she stands her ground, letting fly another arrow. She misses.  
  
His tone shifts once more and Noire’s head is spinning. Flirtatious, to calm, to teasing, to neutral again— it’s _impossible_ to keep up with this man. “There _is_ a way for you to stay with them, of course. I don’t suppose the others have already mentioned it, have they?”                                                                            
  
She shakes her head, shuffling over on trembling legs to tug her arrows from the worn and beaten bark of the tree she’d been told to use as a target. His voice is distant and Noire wishes that she could stop feeling his stare, but it stays with her, a heavy weight on her back as she tugs her arrows from the softening wood.   
  
“One of the siblings would have to take you as their retainer,” Niles explains, still watching Noire with unnerving keenness, raising his brows but saying nothing when he notices the way she drags her fingers across the sharp tips of her arrows. He continues, frowning. “It would be rather difficult to do so. While not unheard of, it’s terribly uncommon for a royal to take on more than two personal retainers at once.”  
  
Noire tries her best to follow along and ignore the little rivulet of blood that drips to the grass when she slides her remaining arrows back into their quiver. The information is hard to pick through. Firstly, she has no idea what a retainer is. She’s heard the word tossed around so much lately, but no one has ever stopped to explain what it means. Second, the apparent unlikelihood of her being able to become one is, quite frankly, terrifying. She really should consider speaking with any mages around the castle to see if they could use her, just in case.  
  
 “Is… Is there anything I can d-do?” she murmurs, fighting to keep desperation from seeping into her tone. She’s just been reunited with her friends, and now there’s a chance they’re going to be torn away again. The thought is _sickening_.   
  
Niles’ only response is to smile, and shrug, saying, “We’ll see.” It’s unfairly cryptic, borderline maddening, and Noire finds herself growing frustrated through her worry. Talking with Laurent is a walk in the park compared to this.  
  
Footsteps sound against the frosted grass before Noire can further ponder her inability to understand anything Niles does, and soon Selena is with them, pigtails swinging by her sides as she slows her run. “Gods,” she drawls, putting a hand on her hip as she looks between Noire and Niles, a twinge of apprehension in her gaze. “Are you two coming to breakfast or not? We’ve been waiting for like, hours.”  
  
Noire is grateful for the rescue, unspeakably so. She gravitates towards Selena faster than a falling star, careful not to actually grab the girl’s shirtsleeves, no matter how much she wants to. Niles gives them a _look_ , and Selena seems to bristle and redden, but quickly brushes it off, spinning on her heel and nodding towards the castle so she can lead Noire to their meal without further speculation from Niles. To his credit, he does not speak, just follows behind them with a smug little trot, occasionally glancing at them from the corner of his eye.   
  
The kitchen is bustling with many a hungry, half-dressed and half-asleep comrade. Xander sits at the head of the long oaken table in naught but a tunic and slacks, considerably less than Noire has ever seen him wearing. His crown is slightly askew, and were he not the high prince Noire might find it giggle-worthy. Laslow sits by Arthur, both almost dressed and both almost asleep, the former resting his chin on one hand and latter with his face half buried in a bowl of oatmeal. The others are all milling about as well; Effie is in the middle of devouring an enormous stack of pancakes, Elise and Odin are bouncing excitedly in their chairs as Camilla returns to them with their own plates of food, and Beruka is dutifully nibbling away at a small slice of bread.  
  
Selena ushers her in and shares a smile with Camilla as they pass by. Noire ends up sitting between Laslow and Effie, and after trying and failing to greet the knight, turns to instead take a gander at all the food laid out. Milk, berries, cheese, all manner of breads and spreads, food Noire hasn’t seen or even thought about it many years. She can’t help but lick her lips and tentatively reach out for one of Camilla’s rather popular pancakes.   
  
“Will little Leo be joining us?” Camilla’s question breaks the comfortable silence, and she looks between Niles and Odin for an answer.   
  
As if reading her mind, Laslow leans to into Noire’s shoulder as Odin gives his booming response. “Leo is the younger prince,” Laslow explains in a whisper, “Odin and Niles serve as his retainers.”  
  
“Is O-Odin not the liege himself? He is a pr-prince, after all,” Noire asks. Apparently a little too loudly, as a wide variety of chaos begins to unfold the second she closes her mouth. Xander begins to choke on a rather hearty sip of milk, Laslow lets out a seemingly unending “Uhm,” and Odin almost slides entirely underneath the table, groaning. Selena misses about two beats before she finally puts her head in her hands, and Niles begins to cackle and wheeze like a madman, drowning out the sound of Elise’s awed, “What? Really?”  
  
Suddenly, Peri is up beside Xander, thumping a hand onto his back as he desperately clutches the sides of the table, and the door creaks open, revealing a somewhat scruffy blond boy in a yellow colored cloak that clearly does not belong to him.  
  
“ _What_ ,” he says, voice managing to quiet some of the absolute cacophony their breakfast has turned into, “Is happening here.” Arthur startles awake, face dripping oatmeal onto the table, and Effie continues to eat as if nothing is happening.   
  
Camilla finally speaks again, barely containing her laughter. “It’s your retainer, dear.”  
  
“Niles, what did you do.”  
  
“Your other retainer,” Camilla giggles, resting a hand on one of Selena’s shaking shoulders, watching as her poor retainer tries not to laugh herself.  
  
The boy turns to Odin’s empty spot at the table, where the tips of his golden blond bedhead are just barely visible from his hiding place beneath the wood. “Odin, what did you do.”  
  
This, Noire assumes, must be Leo. And what a mess she’s given him to walk into. She considers following Odin’s example and slipping underneath the table to escape, but Laslow has a death grip on her hand and looks as if he’s praying to three different Gods at once, so she does her best to refrain for his sake.  
  
“He’s a _prince_!” Elise exclaims through a mouthful of pancake, and she looks up at her brother with gleaming eyes.  
  
Leo turns around and walks right back out the door.  
  
Noire swears she hears him muttering— something about “starting the day over again”— and Niles waves after him, somehow managing words through his laughter. “Where are you going, Milord?” he calls, and after another wheeze, “Take me with you, at least.”  
  
Xander clears his throat a few moments after the doors shut, trying to regain everyone’s attention. Noire now holds Laslow’s hand just as tightly, overwhelmed, but not too unpleasantly, by all that had just unfolded. Peri gives her Lord one last pat on the back before skipping back to her seat, and Effie finally looks up from her food to see what’s going on.   
  
With everyone’s attention on him, and Odin slowly crawling his way back up to his chair, Xander speaks, though apparently intent on avoiding the subject of Odin’s lineage. “Now that we’ve-” he pauses to cough, “now that we’ve all settled, I believe we have some important manners to discuss.”  
  
Peri hums through a mouthful of grape juice and swallows frantically. “Yeah! Like, where’s Laslow stealer gonna go after this?”  
  
Noire can’t help but squeak as attention is drawn to her, and she sinks a little into Laslow’s side, now more tempted than ever to disappear underneath the table. Xander blinks a few times, but says nothing about the new nickname. This earns a rather disapproving look from Camilla, which Xander matches with his most neutral and kingly glare.  
  
“I wasn’t aware she was going anywhere,” Selena says, furrowing her eyebrows and crossing her arms defensively.  
  
Peri raises a finger to her lips and casts her gaze to the ceiling, looking and acting rather like a child. “She doesn’t belong in the castle though, right?”   
  
Noire flinches at the words— they hurt, no matter how innocently they were spoken— and Laslow mutters various foreign expletives and pleads under his breath. On the other side of the table, Odin and Selena both look rather offended, Elise has dropped her fork, and Camilla’s usually calm expression has turned into the very picture of disbelief.   
  
“With all due respect, Milord,” Niles interrupts, casting Xander an amused smile, “I believe it’s time to reign Peri in.”  
  
Xander’s eyes widen. “Reign her in-”  
  
The table descends into chaos once more, all bickering and glares and giggles from Peri— who seems quite pleased with what she’s caused— and somehow Noire catches Beruka’s gaze amidst the clammer. Part of her wants to look away, but Beruka’s steadiness and calm is strangely transfixing, and Noire finds a stronger part of her wants to keep looking and just forget about everything going on around them. Beruka moves to readjust her scarf but holds their stare, unblinking, strong in a way that’s surprisingly comforting.   
  
“She could become a retainer!” Odin shouts, slamming his hands onto the table and rousing both Noire and Beruka from their little moment. A silence follows his declaration and Niles sends a wink Noire’s way, leaning back dangerously in his chair.   
  
Xander takes a long, deep breath, and turns back to Noire, eyes hard and calculating. Noire wishes she were back in Ylisse; sleeping until noon with Brady, patrol with Cynthia, going over tomes with her mother, _anything_ but having Xander stare at her so. She’s beginning to feel the familiar heat and buzz of her mother’s magic dancing in her head, forcing her thoughts to a blank, filling her with boundless energy, making her _angry_. She tries to fight it off, because fury is the last thing she needs right now, but her fingers won’t stop twitching and the urge to just bare her teeth and snarl in the face of this fear is becoming overwhelming.   
  
“I will take her.” Camilla’s voice sounds so far away when she speaks, but her words reach and shake Noire all the same. There’s a certain finality to her tone that says she won’t be taking no for an answer. “I am to search for Corrin soon, am I not? I could use all the help I can get.”   
  
There’s another bout of quiet, and the tension is palpable, but Xander eventually secedes. “Very well,” he grits, pushing out from the table, clearly frustrated. “Do as you wish.” He makes it three steps from the door before Laslow and Peri finally scramble from their seats to his side, Laslow stumbling as he scurries to match Xander’s brusque pace while the three make their exit. Noire blinks harshly as the doors thump closed, and finds herself staring at Xander’s half empty plate, shuddering.   
  
She can feel her canines, sharp and smooth against her tongue, and winces at the click of her jaw as they begin to recede, as the spell begins to fade and leave her less like a raging boar and more like cornered mouse. Frantic, Noire takes in the sight of everyone’s reactions. Effie is staring blankly at Camilla, while Arthur has moved to Elise’s side and appears to be comforting the sullen little princess. Odin’s eyes are screwed shut, and he breathes deeply through his nose while Niles watches with furrowed brows. Selena is braced against the tabletop as if preparing for a fight, no doubt aware of the blood and thunder Noire may have started spitting, and Beruka has a hand on one of her rigid shoulders. Camilla, though, Camilla’s stare pierces through Noire’s very soul, and suddenly she finds her magic-addled brain is screaming for her to _leave_.  
  
Strangely enough, it’s Beruka who provides her escape.  
  
“She isn’t dressed to be a retainer,” she notes monotonously, taking in Noire’s loose nightshirt and leggings.   
  
Camilla takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes before humming softly in agreement. “Indeed. Why don’t you and Selena go and help get her suited?”  
  
Beruka nods once, stiff and curt, and rises from her seat without another word, tugging lightly on the back of Selena’s shirt collar to catch her attention. Selena’s eyes are still trained on Noire, but she rises alongside Beruka, blindly swatting the girl’s hand away, waiting for the frightened archer to join them. And, as much as Noire doesn’t wish to stand— because everyone will be _looking, staring, leering_ — she know that the sooner she leaves, the better, and so she stumbles her way across the room and grabs hold of Selena’s hand, letting the girl pull them out of sight as Beruka follows silently behind.  
  
Once outside, Noire allows herself to weaken and staggers shoulder-first into the nearest wall, struggling to catch her breath. Selena leans next to her and, staring intently at Noire’s talisman, sighs.  
  
“Gods, for a second there I thought you were gonna take Lord Xander’s head off.” She rolls her eyes and gives a tired, pitiful huff.  
  
Noire gulps, guilt sinking in her stomach, and looks away, eyes brimming with tears. She’s always been a nuisance for poor Severa, and even now, in a different life, with a different _name_ , she still does nothing but bother her. She’s such an awful friend. They continue their trek down the hallway shortly thereafter, and Noire is surprised to notice that Selena has yet to let go of her hand.   
  
As their walk stretches further on, Noire manages to gather the courage to speak. “Are… are all m-meals that…”  
  
“Out of control?” Selena supplies with a grunt. “Only sometimes.”  
  
For possibly the millionth time since she’s arrived, Noire curses the beast that brought her here. “Well, L-Lady Camilla w-was awfully kind to take me i-in after all the trouble I’ve caused…”  
  
“You didn’t cause nearly as much trouble as Beruka.”  
  
Beruka narrows her eyes and bumps her shoulder against Selena’s.  
  
“Or Niles,” the redhead relents with another magnificent roll of her eyes, and Noire finds herself very much unsurprised by the idea of Niles causing trouble.  
  
There are still so many questions on her mind, but she doesn’t want to grate on Selena’s nerves, and it appears they’ve finally arrived at the destination; a lavish armory decorated with many a shining piece of armor and many a glinting lance. Beruka seems a woman on a mission and rushes straight to the silver chest near the back of the room, slowly pulling out some worn leather padding and a heap of chainmail.  
  
“Easy, tiger,” Selena warns, tugging Noire along as she joins her partner in crouching before the chest. “We need to get her measurements first, idiot. Run along and get the measuring tape, will you?” Noire finds it somehow admirable that Selena can still manage to be so thorny with someone as serious as Beruka, reminding her of the many times she had snarked with Lon’qu. She hardly notices Beruka run off and return, nor does she pay much mind to Selena’s positioning of her, too wrapped up in thoughts of home.  
  
The feeling of fingers brushing across the back of her leg is what startles her from it, and she squeaks in surprise, eyes widening as she finds Selena kneeling in front of her, a smirk lighting her features.   
  
“Grab me those brown thick-cuffed boots, Beruka,” she nods to her partner. She gives Noire another quick, surveying glance, and adds, “Oh, and one of my padded shirts.”  
  
Noire manages to find her voice as Beruka scampers off again, mumbling one of her leftover inquiries. “I-Is my normal armor too d-damaged?”  
  
Selena slowly rises, bringing a hand to her chin as she continues to examine Noire. “That, and you’d freeze your ass off if it’s all you wore. Nohr is _much_ colder than Ylisse.” She wraps the strip of measuring tape around Noire’s shoulders, and the girl tries her best not to flinch at how close Selena is getting.   
  
“S-Selena?” Noire blurts suddenly, hoping to distract Selena from the reddening of her cheeks. "Who... Who's Corrin?"  
  
“Corrin is Lady Camilla’s sister,” Selena explains, sounding somewhat bitter. “She’s gone rogue. In four days, Lady Camilla is to…” she hesitates, a rare occurrence. She must be serious. “Lady Camilla will have to kill her.”  
  
Noire’s heart sinks, and she is immediately reminded of Lucina and Robin. To kill a family member, a sibling— some morbid part of her imagines Morgan, tearful, shaking, nose to nose with the end of the Falchion— is a horrid, ugly, unimaginable task. She begins to regret asking.  
  
Selena lets one end of the measuring tape slip to the floor, frowning deeply, and Noire wants nothing more than to take her in her arms and tell her things will be alright. Instead, she stays stock still, pathetically afraid, and waits for Beruka to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> niles and xander are difficult to write;; i hope i did them Some justice..  
> anyways, a second round of apologies for taking so long with this! i should hopefully get the next part out much quicker (and hey, it'll have some terrible takumi v. noire action so stay tuned for that)


End file.
